His Special Bone...

Every Now & Then, The Dog feels it is time to show me what kind of Weimaraner stuff he is really made of. 

So, seeing me hard at work on blogs & things, The Dog trots-off upstairs and pulls out of his dog-toy box his Special Bone. He then returns, plops on his downstairs bed and proceeds to work on his bone, while I sit typing at my desk beside him. 

It is The Special Communion between Man AND Dog. 

Unfortunately for The Dog, that bone then must come with us wherevere we are, wherever we go... whatever we are doing...

in the car... 

on our w-a-l-k-s... 

to the bar for a cappuccino... 

or, on the rug in front of the TV upstairs. 

Yes. To another person in Our Household, Weimaraner teeth cutting haphazardly into bone is not the most pleasant of accompaniments. This is especially true when The Short-person is watching a Lucchino Visconti film on mad ol' Ludwig. Then, the Special Bone is summarily separated from the Dog by said Viewer of the film. Have you ever heard a Weimaraner pester someone with incessant whinning? Pathetic. And, annoying too. So, Dog, Bone and myself go back downstairs to work and The Short-person is left to his Italo-germanic feel good film starring Helmut Berger. Gads. 

An Official Emergency Sack...

This is An Official Emergency Sack. It is for The Dog's bio-waste... or, solid donation... pooh-pooh... ca-ca... and so on and so forth. By Italian Law... and this is of vital importance... I am obligated to have at least 3 of these things on me... at all times... when out with The Dog. The Question is... how am I to maintain the constant quantity of 3, if The Dog uses 2 on our w-a-l-k-s? And, because of how things do or do not work here in Italy, you live in constant Terror of being confronted by a Vigile or by a Vigilessa... basically... a low-grade AND annoying sort of meter reader in a blue uniform. However, they are also entrusted with additional duties of making your civil life in the city UN INFERNO by fining you for every infraction of the city's Rules & Regulations they see committed. One of these would be how you manage your dog's bio-waste. But, enough about them... 

In the meantime... I am sure you all are anxious to learn of the key details of just what makes An Official Emergency Sack. Now, don't deny it! So, here we go...

1. It needs to be plastic... yes, waste creates more waste when the real waste makes fertilizer for the city's under-nourished flora...

2. It needs to be LARGE enough to do The Job but, SMALL enough to avoid creating unsightly bulges in your back pants pockets...

3. Handles are important... for that final bow before tossing the O.E.S. into the nearest bin...

4. Recycled sacks are the best... it's such a great advertisement for the local supermarkets & pharmacies... 

5. NO HOLES at the bottom. Need I say more?

Now, if you will excuse me, The Dog wants to go out. Gads.

The Dog Park in August...

Oh! By the way... here is the Creature Count during our visit to the Aquasola Park where there is fenced-in strip of gravel dedicated to dogs and cleverly referred to by the locals at the Dog Park...

The Dog... on his lonely peregrinations...
2 mothers...

and their 5 children.
That was it! A city, even a big one like Genoa, can be pretty darn vacant in August at Noon.

And, you have certainly noticed how superbly maintained the park's "grounds" are? Gads.

Median strips...

Yes. Here is The Dog blatantly disgracing himself by burying his large Weimaraner snout into the uncharted territory of the greenery in the median strip in front of the "Juvenile Delinquent" Court here in Genoa. He picked his spot well, didn't he? 

We were supposed to be on our way to a special out-of-hours visit to the city's Dog Park. Scuzzy place, as per a previous blog. I thought it would be a change for the Dog to leave the confines of an air-conditioning loft and instead, re-acquaint himself with the wild urban outdoors. The Dog took the liberty to partake of all along our way. I finally had to yank him away from any further fall before the court. Also, I had only put in a single Euro coin in the parking meter. We had to hurry! The ticket gave us 30 minutes. Gads. 

Stuff for a dog to slobber over...

Well, yes... the first time I opened a can of this brand of dog-food, The Dog, hearing the POP!!! of the can's metal tab and the aromatic WHOOSH!!! of meaty things to eat, bounded down from his upstair bed and into the Kitchen in Record Time. There he was parked just inside the Kitchen's doorway, anticipating Heaven in his dog bowl.

Yes, well... this Heaven, which comes to The Dog in two daily doses and purported to be from lands down-under is... from what I can tell of the micro-printing on the can's label... a hometown product from right here in Genoa, Italy, Europe. The Dog never knew he was so close to Paradise. Gads.

Dog in the heat...

It has been violently hot here this summer. It still is too. The days alternate from a convection oven to a steam bath with hardly a variation in the heat or humidity. The temp seems to always hover around 100+.

This is NOT good weather for a Weimaraner. 

I am a bit amazed we even made it to this little non-descript park today. It's down this major artery from our apartment in our smog & heat-wave throttled city in the middle of August. And, I am mystified too that the grass is oddly lightly green. Dogs water it. That must be why. 
Normally, The Dog does his Dance to go out, and then, just stands on our apartment building's front stoop, drooling, head in the hang-dog position and his laser eyes glaring up at me like I must be mad. Well, I have to say to The Dog... 
Tis not I, Dog, who asked to be taken out for a w-a-l-k at Noon! 
Naturally, rejecting any Responsibility for his decisions, The Dog turns & points his 30+ kilo Weimaraner body towards the door. This means The Dog wants to return to the Comfort of air-conditioning. Gads.

An Important Reminder...

Here is An Important Reminder, a note for One & All to incorporate into the scheme of your daily ebb & flow...

Moses is the Mostest Moses of all the Moseseseses!!!

and so on and so forth. Gads.

Every dog needs a song...

I think every dog needs A Special Song. Moses has many. Here is his Summer-Time Song... with much thanks to Mr. Paul Anka...

Put your Weimaraner head on my shoulder

Let your big ears flop in my face, baby

Snuggle your 30+ kilos next to my 110+

Show me that you love me too!

Put your Weimaraner lips close so I can smell your bad dog-breath

Don't lick me, please, not even once, baby

Just a sniff Goodnight, maybe

You and I will fall in love!

Put your Weimaraner head on my shoulder

Try to whisper rather than bark in my ear, baby

Words I want to hear and not that you demand a Treat

Tell me, tell that you love me too!

Gads.

Ruled by his equipment...

Yes, all a Weimaraner really needs to make his way in The World is...

his nose, all the better to sniff disgusting things... 

and... 

his Weimaraner tongue, all the better to lick them. Gads.

The Dog is a damn clock...

Yep. The Dog is upset with me. Very upset. He got tired of waiting. So, he came into the Kitchen and barked...

Where is my dinner? It should have been served nearly 15 minutes ago! I have been on my downstairs bed waiting patiently for your call, "Come and get it, Moses!" and what do I discover? It isn't ready! Instead, you are sautéing fish for that Short-person,  who twists my ears thinking I like that. Can't he just scratch my head like the others? Now, where is my dinner?

Nope. He was not the least bit interested that I was busily fixing The Short-person's evening repast. Just another one of My 24/7 Duties. For The Dog, priorities are priorities and his ALWAYS must take precedence! Dinner is at 6PM.

Yep. The Dog is a clock with an alarm set for the following hours...

9AM... Time to go out for W-a-l-k Numero Uno... 

10AM... A Treat followed immediately by Breakfast. Then, a nap...

Noon... A Treat and, if it isn't over 80+ degrees outside, W-a-l-k Numero Due. Then, a nap...

4PM... W-a-l-k Numero Tre', unless it is over 80+ degrees. Then, he'll take a Treat and wait until 5Pm for the W-a-l-k...

6PM... Dinner...

9PM... A very short W-a-l-k Numero Quattro, longer, but not too long, if the outside temp is not over 80+ degrees. Then, it's Beddy-bye Time.

At 9:01Pm, I am all done in. But then, there's The Short-person to attend to. Gads.

Stripes make him impatient...

Another look. This one says...

OK... while I fry in this 100+ heat, why are you not in the driver seat putting this tin can-with-no-roof into gear to stir up some much needed breeze?

I did. And, still The Dog insisted upon putting his floppy-eared Weimaraner head next to the gear-shift handle.

Please note: there's no towel where I sit to protect my fanny from the scalding black leather upholstery.

Gads.

What not to do on a beach in August...

This is The Dog on the freebie beach in Sardinia. Yep. The Dog digging again. We escaped there for 10 days of R & R... I was accused of being nervous, hysterical and a poor dinner guest. I agreed so, I grabbed The Dog and we took the next boat. I should have taken a peek at a calendar though. We arrived smacked at the beginning of the August Vacations. Big mistake. You don't want to be around Italians... any & all Italians... furious for Fun & Frolic on their own professed shores. Yes, because, these actual shores belong to The Sardinia Region... a semi-quasi-sort-of republic. Seems logical. There is a sizeable body of water separating the island from the Italian peninsula. This half-baked distinction means the Sardinians get to keep some of their own tax monies, unlike the rest of Italy. Their Euros have to go to Rome. Must be why the Italians invade every August. Revenge. 

But, enough...

There was a second reason for going to France... Sweden... or even to little tiny Switzerland, for cryin' out loud... over sailing to Sardinia. The Dog dug up sleeping yellow jackets. Yep. August is just about the time those critters wake-up & pester the world. The Dog & I had to beat a very hasty retreat to the car and high-tail it for home.

That was fine. The Dog resumed Nap #43 on the cool marble floor of the apartment and I watched Shakespeare in Love... what a bunch of icky Hollywood dribble called acting. But then, what does Gwenyth know how to do otherwise? She doesn't even look good in Ralph Lauren... while sipping an excellent Sardinian Vermentino. 

And, we never went back to the beach again. Gads.

Cool...

Beatrice and The Dog at nap time.

Dogs have best friends too...

This is The Dog and his new best friend, Beatrice. She is 4 years old. Beatrice likes to hang-out with Moses from time to time while her mother & I drink beer & talk shop. We are both renovating old farm houses. Meanwhile, The Dog & Beatrice love the cool of the marble flooring in a heat-wave. And, neither one drinks beer.

I can't tell though, if The Dog really likes Beatrice or not. His look says... HELP?!? She's ONLY 4!!! At least, he doesn't run & hide when Beatrice skips into the room to give him one of many hugs & squeezes & pats on his Weimaraner head. For that, I am thankful.

I believe this best-friend-with-a-Human-Being business is a first for The Dog. You know, being An Only Dog can be lonesome. Every now & then, The Short-person & I talk of getting another Weimaraner. Thinking The Dog would enjoy having a companion to chew on A Special Bone with, to go out on walks & sniff together, to bark in unison when someone exits the elevator on our floor, to pee in tandem against the same city lamp post and to collectively snore during one of their frequent daily naps, etc. Then, evaluating The True Character of The Dog, we decide... Nah!!! It would be more like... another dog stealing The Dog's food, commandeering his bed and, above all, shoving him aside from his exalted position as Dog Numero Uno in our hearts & house because the puppy is so adorable. The initiative promptly collapses and we, instead, elect to remain A One Dog Family. Anyway... ONE WEIMARANER IS CERTAINLY ENOUGH WORK FOR US!!!

Beatrice is so much easier too. She's no threat to The Dog's social position. Beatrice is already Numero Uno in her parent's eyes. I bet she'd HATE The Dog's food. It's not made with Nutella or little chocolate bits & in the form of animals. And, peeing against a limp post is kind of hard with girlie pink underwear on.

So, I approve. Yet, it all depends on The Dog. Courage, Moses!!! Gads.